by Sandy DeLuca
“But the pain was unbearable right after it happened. I used to walk by the orphanage. Wonder if he was in there. Once I even went up to the gates, was ready to push them open—and I seen her in the doorway—Sister Theresa.
“We’ll never know, Julia. We’ll just never know. We cry for the dead. For the living—the ones we love but can never touch—never hold.”
My aunt and I cried and held each other until the sun came up, until my father walked through the door with hunched shoulders.
“I didn’t have a chance to call. Sorry. I need some sleep.” His eyes were swollen and red.
Years later a thought occurred to me as I watched my father, sick with cancer, still turning over the soil in the back-yard of his house in Warwick even though the doctors said he had mere weeks to live. It was the day before Easter. His striped tabby sunned himself next to the tomato plants. Sammy could have buried the dead in that rich soil. Most of them were just left broken and bleeding—others were thrown in shallow graves. They could have lain in that moist earth and slept, my father caring for the garden growing above them and the tabby cat running playfully through the weeds and stone.
Dad digging. The sun going down. Pollen floating in the air, thick and heavy.
Dad turned to me, laughing, “What are you staring at, my little idiot?”
“Just thinking about the dead, Pa, about how we can’t change the past.”
* * *
I sit in the rocker. It feels warm, smells of lemon and good wine, as though my aunt is really sitting here.
“Are you still with me, Aunty?”
Mother cat nuzzles her head against my foot. A vision of my aunt reading the Tarot flashes through my head.
What Aunt Lil would have accomplished if she’d been born in another time. Would my mother have been different?
It’s sad that my parents still made me feel worthless at nineteen. They made me feel inadequate. They made me vulnerable, and in many ways made me vulnerable to falling into the arms of someone like Sammy De Souza.
Even now the coke and the wine do little to distract me from his memory and the memories of all we did together. Sammy, and me. God help me.
I force myself from the rocker. It’s time to do more painting, to lose myself in my work. I allow my hands to interpret my pain and to spread death, suffering and dark magic across the canvas. Sammy’s face manifests within thick brush strokes, and the dead are etched within his shadow.
CHAPTER 13
I squeeze oil paint from the tube and onto canvas. The colors are rich, thick and vibrant. I’m not stingy with my paint. I use it freely and won’t hesitate to run to the art supply store, spend a hundred or more dollars to replenish my supply of oils, brushes and mediums. What else is there in my life? Besides, when I paint in this way my work sells well. In no time I’ll have saved enough money to buy a loft in New York City, to be able to escape there when I need to, and to be free of my mother, perhaps for a few days each month, each week if need be.
I tried to escape her before, but chose a madman to run away with. His face seems alive on my canvas, his eyes contemptuous. Bright crimson drips from his hands, forcing me to remember bloody deeds. Our deeds.
* * *
I ran into Sammy DeSouza once again. Even then it seemed inevitable and not completely within my control.
I was sitting at the bar at Tommy’s Café, waiting for a friend named Janice Longia, who was out in the parking lot balling the bartender in his Thunderbird. I sipped my drink and listened to the band play Ruby Tuesday. They didn’t sound much like the Stones—none of the local bands ever did—but they reminded me of the band at Xavier’s, and the good times I’d had there with my brother.
But the good memories soon turned bad, and the music didn’t matter. I was high on the grass Janice and I had smoked in the ladies room a bit earlier, and a few more glasses of Southern Comfort and I’d be feeling no pain at all.
I had been semi-engaged to Gerry, but still wouldn’t let him get inside me—not like the bartender was doing to Janice out in his car. I let him touch me, put his fingers up there, but I was a virgin, still afraid of getting pregnant, afraid my parents would act the same as Nana and Grandpa did when Aunt Lil got pregnant.
Gerry said he needed more in a relationship, so I told him maybe we could get married sooner. He told me to grow up, and that he wanted to see other girls, women without sexual hang-ups. I guess if I’d really loved him I would have given in, wouldn’t have cared what my parents said. But I found myself thinking about Sammy a lot, wondering what it would be like to sleep with him, and even pretended he was the one kissing me when Gerry and I made out.
Eventually Gerry dumped me for a waitress over at the Last Chance Cafe. He got her pregnant six months later. He didn’t marry her, they just lived together.
He still called me now and then, told me he wasn’t all that happy, and he’d make dates with me then never show up. I spent many nights waiting for Gerry, but spent most of my time thinking about Sammy DeSouza instead. He made me wet without even being there.
Janice said it was easy enough to get on the pill. Girls our age could give a false name over at the clinic downtown—they never checked—and after the examination they’d give you a year’s supply. “You can fuck to your heart’s delight, Julia. You don’t know what you’re missing.”
I never understood how girls like Janice could just do it with anybody. No love. No strings. Just sex.
My mother called girls like Janice a puttana.
Aunt Lil called her a free spirit.
As I sat at that bar drinking, I wondered if Sammy only dated free spirits. I watched the door, certain somehow that he’d show up that night.
When he finally did, he walked into Tommy’s and spotted me right away. There was something more dangerous—something darker and different about him, and I knew even then I’d take risks for him that I’d only dreamed about. He sauntered over, took a seat next to me and ordered a beer. “You still going around with that other guy?”
“No, I’m free now.”
“And you never called me? Shame on you.” The band started playing a song from the musical Hair.
“Let’s dance.”
I followed him onto the dance floor and nestled into his arms. He smelled of pot and incense. It was like an intense, dangerous, but beautiful dream being with him, sensuous and comfortable.
He pulled me into his world, made me forget who I’d been for nineteen years, changed everything about me in those few minutes with his arms around me. In an instant, my life changed. I changed. And my life would never be the way Daddy or Mom planned.
Never.
* * *
The cats are curled up on my bed. Mother cat watches as I prepare another canvas, meows softly as I do a line of coke.
The phone rings. It’s him again. He asks if my hands are still soft, if age has taken away their power.
“No,” I tell him, wondering if he can hear the trembling in my voice. “They’re still my strength.”
I hang up, force him away, and open another tube of red paint. It squeezes out onto the canvas and clots like newly spilled blood.
CHAPTER 14
I rummage through my mother’s bureau. Inside a wooden box there I find black and white photographs of her, my father and my aunt. A picture of my brother Paul is wrapped in white velvet. There’s a medal of the Blessed Virgin taped to it. My mother kept a letter I wrote to her in the 70s. My high school diploma and a child drawing I’d done are tucked inside a manila envelope.
Her brocaded night jackets and silk nightgowns are folded neatly. A card my father gave her one Valentine’s Day falls from within the folds of a black silk scarf. A notebook filled with random thoughts is beneath my father’s engraved cigarette lighter. She writes of dreams of the dead, of the death of her only son, of the wasted life of her only daughter.
Is it my fault that Julia is a life with no meaning on this earth? I created her and I should try to love
her, but I believe she’s evil, has done evil things. I dreamed of her with blood on her hands…
I tear the notebook to shreds. Anger boils within me and I scream until my throat is raw and the pain eases, certain I have lost whatever remains of my mind.
A torn piece of paper falls onto the bureau. My mother’s words are clear and haunting.
I dreamed of her and that madman—that Sammy…
Does she really know what happened between Sammy and me, or is this simply more madness sent from the dark places in my past to haunt and confuse me? I’m so exhausted, so drained I can’t be sure anymore.
I dreamed of her and that madman.
* * *
Sammy and I continued dating. We’d go to local clubs like January’s and The Edge and hang with his friends, who were all as wild and carefree as he was, it seemed. Bob Stanni was his best friend, a married guy who complained about living in the slums, about his wife and the burden of being a father. He rode a Harley, wore a leather jacket no matter how warm it got and had long, thin dirty blond hair. His eyes were blue and always bloodshot, and his fingernails were never clean.
Whenever he saw Sammy and me together he always had the same rap. “Bring Julia by. We’ll all get high together. I’ve got it all; grass, downers, uppers and some of the best hash on the Eastern Seaboard. Lord knows if it wasn’t for dealing I’d never be able to pay the rent for that dump we live in. The carpentry jobs don’t come all that often. Wish they did. Wish I could start my business back up.” Bob would check me out without even attempting subtlety, then nudge Sammy and say, “Yeah, bring Julia by.”
“I will,” Sammy always said. “But she’s not like the others. So don’t get any ideas about my girl. She’s a good kid.”
Sammy was awed that I was still a virgin at my age. Most of the time he just took me to the clubs—where I usually paid the tab—and eventually took me over to his sister’s house or to Stanni’s place down in the projects. But in those early days he was actually something of a gentlemen, and still very protective of me.
Eventually, his kisses became longer, and his hands explored my body more and more.
“I’ve got to break you, girl. I’ve got to get inside you. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“Then there’s no question about it. We’ll wait for a night when my sister Tonya is out, when the girls are asleep.”
“What if—?”
“No questions. Didn’t I just say that? You don’t want me to split, do you? You know how many girls I can get who won’t think twice about letting me inside them?”
I thought about Gerry, about how he took up with that girl and got her pregnant. But Sammy was smarter, worldlier, and he’d take care of me.
I looked into his eyes, nodded and smiled. “I can’t wait to be with you that way, Sammy.”
* * *
I wonder if my mother has gone through my bureau drawers when I’ve been away from here. Does she curse me when she finds letters men have written me? Is she jealous when she sees the books and icons my aunt left to me?
I wonder if my mother and father spoke about sex before their wedding night, if he told her how much he wanted to make love to her. If she loved him at all she must have felt hot, excited knowing that soon she’d lay in bed with him. Despite her prudish rants I’m sure she longed to be with him in that way before they married.
Wanting to be with the man you love—like my youthful feelings about Sammy—are natural, can be beautiful. Too bad those feelings are to blame for what I’ve become.
CHAPTER 15
It’s snowing lightly, but the weatherman on TV says there could be three to four inches falling over the next hour or so. I decide to eat something, maybe a sandwich and a hot cup of coffee. I should eat; I know that. I need to eat more. And I need to warm up a bit. It’s so cold here, and so long until spring comes again. I wonder if my mother will still be here by then.
* * *
On the first night of spring in 1971, Tonya’s three daughters were tucked in bed and sound asleep. Sammy put on an album by The Doors, and there must have been a scratch or a piece of dust on the record, because during LA Woman Morrison’s voice jumped when he sang about her hair being on fire. It reminded me of Aunt Lil, with her red hair flying all about, and I smiled to myself.
I heard the woman next door screaming at her kids, then the sounds of pans rattling.
“Crazy bitch next door,” Sammy said as he made sure the door to the girl’s room was shut tight. He sat close to me on Tonya’s couch and put his arm around me. “There’s more to love than kissing and finger fucking. You gotta let me inside you. I can’t deal with not having you that way anymore.”
“I’m not sure I’m ready. I know I said—”
“Sure you are. The moon is full. Spring is coming at exactly ten-to-five—they said that on the news—and the kids are asleep. Let me break you tonight.”
“Just your fingers, ok? I’m not—”
“Look, we’ll make it a game. Like you’re a virgin being sacrificed on the first night of spring.”
“I don’t—”
“You’ll never hold onto any guy if you don’t let him fuck you, Julia.” He laughed as if his opinions were fact. “We’ll make it a game, okay?”
He went to a nearby cupboard and removed some jars of colored paints and brushes. “My sister’s kids love to paint,” he said. “They made a mess of the wall in their room. Tonya had to have it repainted.”
I watched as he lined up the jars and looked at them thoughtfully. After a long pause, he finally picked one and held it up. “Red. Perfect on you.” He put it back down gently then grabbed a fat brush with paint splatters on it. He turned it over in his hand and set it next to the jar of paint.
“I used to paint with that stuff when I was a kid too,” I said nervously. I could tell he knew how scared I was. I couldn’t hide it from him.
He reached into his pocket, took out a baggie full of yellow pills. “Here, take a downer. It’ll relax you.”
I swallowed the yellow pill and chased it with two glasses of the cheap red wine he’d gotten at the convenience store. Five minutes later I was swooning, high off my ass and feeling no pain.
Sammy removed my sandals then slipped my dress off over my head. I made no move to stop him, voiced no protests, just smiled, stoned but aware that he had undone my bra and slipped my panties off as well.
He opened the jar and dipped the brush into the paint then drew a round circle on my belly, adding what could have been horns or abstract ears. The paint felt cold, sticky on my skin. The pasty smell of the cheap paint filled my nostrils. The brush tickled a bit and a nervous giggle escaped from my trembling lips.
He ran the brush down the insides of my thighs, painting jagged lines as he went. I began to get wet, anticipating finally making love with him. He painted over my pubic hair then bent down and began licking me. It felt good and made me wetter.
He pulled away, looked at me and smiled, it looked like there was blood smeared around his mouth.
“It’s time.”
I checked the clock on the end table—ten-to-five.
He spread my legs wide, got on top of me and forced himself inside me. I tensed and he kissed me softly. Slowly and steadily he moved in and out of me.
“You’re getting fucked for the first time,” he said to me, breath hot in my ear. “Feel me inside you?”
I felt a sharp pain and then his hardness going deeper and deeper inside me.
He pulled out of me right before he climaxed, blending his semen with my own wetness and the red paint. He kept his fingers on my clitoris and I had an orgasm within minutes.
“That’s a good girl,” he whispered.
The moment it was over the sounds around us came back to me.
The woman next door began yelling again. A car door slammed. A dog growled outside the window.
“My Spring offering,” Sammy whispered.
He kissed me again,
and at that moment I heard my aunt’s voice…
Astaroth has shown me your descent...
* * *
I boil the water for my coffee then spread peanut butter on white bread. I’m suddenly ravenous.
I eat two sandwiches and devour a whole package of brownies.
Aunt Lil loved sweets. She often told me tales as we dined on junk food and drank coffee together, tales about her ragtag soothsayer—Astaroth—in between bites of cream-filled chocolate.
I haven’t thought about Astaroth in years. Lil said he was a fortune-telling demon who she could summon after a couple of bottles of Pino Grigio.
With this thought I decide to drive to the liquor store before the snow intensifies. I’ll drink in memory of my aunt, of her mystical beliefs and of whimsical demons who whispered secrets to her in dreams.
CHAPTER 16
Would people think me mad if I told them about Astaroth? He chose not to speak this day. He refused to reveal my fate. He watched me in pale daylight. He slipped away from me when I spread the Tarot cards across my bed. Then I heard him screech with the crows hovering in the oak tree. His yellow eyes peeked through leaves and boughs. And I saw his black shadow float away when the sun blinked through the tangled branches.
Now a soft breeze rocks the limbs. A bluejay flaps its wings and welcomes this morning, the coolest day so far this week. Thunder rumbles once as I dress, and occasional bolts of lightning light up the mist-shrouded dawn.
